Page 19 of Twisted Fate

The rest of the flight passes mostly in silence. I try to focus on work, eventually giving up and getting out my tablet to read a mystery novel that I’ve been trying to get a chapter in here and there. Sophia slips in a pair of earbuds and gets her own tablet out, effectively shutting me out for the duration of the flight. She eventually dozes off after dinner, her head tilted against the window, dark lashes fanning against her cheeks. I watch her sleep, unable to look away despite my best intentions.

With my insistence on separate bedrooms, I haven’t seen her sleep before. What startles me is how guarded she looks, even in slumber. She looks tense, as if she’s ready to wake at the slightest disturbance. It's not the sleep of someone who feels safe, who trusts their surroundings. It's the sleep of someone always on alert, always ready for danger.

I frown, watching her, and I wonder what else there is about Sophia Moretti that I don’t know—what secrets she’s hiding that make her look as if she’s ready to run at any moment when she’s unguarded and vulnerable.

—

It’sdark when we arrive at the resort, after a fifteen-hour flight and a white-knuckle ride in a very small plane to a tarmac about twenty minutes away from the resort itself. A valet meets us at the courtyard, escorting us inside to the concierge as another staff member takes our bags.

The resort itself is even more impressively gorgeous than the photos suggested—luxury is evident everywhere I look in the lobby. The wooden floors are gleaming, the textiles soft, everything done in desert colors of red and cream and deep browns. The wall behind the concierge desk is a rough stone, textured in a way that’s meant to look rustic while still being appealing to the sort of high-end guests who stay at a place like this. The large windows offer what I’m sure would be panoramic views of the Serengeti grasslands and park in the daytime, and I see a patio beyond one door—probably an outdoor breakfast area.

"This is… breathtaking," Sophia murmurs, looking around as the manager checks us in.

"Only the best for my wife," I reply smoothly, playing the devoted husband for our audience. Sophia looks sideways at me, a hint of annoyance in her eyes.

She knows it's an act, but she plays along, slipping her arm through mine and leaning against me slightly. She’s wearing that sweet violet perfume again, and my pulse quickens despite mybest efforts, the warmth of her body against mine sending a flare of heat through my blood.

“Two rooms for the Abramov party—king suites with a plunge pool, private concierge, and?—”

“Two rooms?” Sophia interrupts, and I shoot her a sharp look. I’d known she wouldn’t be happy about it, but I didn’t think she’d challenge me at the reception desk. From the look in her eyes, though, she’s more than unhappy.

She lookspissed.

The receptionist, a dark-haired woman with a name tag that readsElizabeth, glances between us, sensing the sudden tension. "Yes, Mr. Abramov specified two bedrooms when he made the reservation. Is there a problem?"

"No problem at all," I interject smoothly. "Thank you, Elizabeth. We'll take it from here." I reach for Sophia’s arm, steering her away from the desk as Elizabeth finishes readying our keys. Sophia pulls away from me instantly, her green eyes flashing with anger.

"Two bedrooms?" she demands. "Even here, in the middle of nowhere, you're maintaining this… this charade? We’re on ourhoneymoon, Konstantin. I thought you said you were all about playing the part."

“In public.” I rub a hand across my face, desperately wishing for a drink. “It’s not a charade either, Sophia. It’s a boundary. One that I made clear last night. And we couldn’t be more ‘in private’ here.”

"A boundary." She laughs, the sound bitter and sharp. "We're on our honeymoon, Konstantin. Do you have any idea how this looks to the staff? What if your father makes inquiries?"

"The staff are paid extremely well for their discretion," I say calmly. “And my father isn’t going to check up on my personal life while on my honeymoon.”

"Your personal life," she repeats, her voice rising. I shoot her a warning glare, wordlessly reminding her to keep her tone low—but she ignores me. "This isourlife now, Konstantin.Ourmarriage. And you're making me look like a fool—the bride whose husband won't even share her bed on their honeymoon."

I press my lips together, fighting to keep my temper in check. I don’t like being managed, and I feel like that’s what’s happening here—that my new wife is trying to guilt me into sharing a bed with her. "What did you expect, Sophia? That we'd play house? That I'd forget this marriage is nothing but a political move by my father and your guardian? I told you that we’d sleep together when I want an heir, and I have no interest in getting you pregnant yet." Just saying it aloud sends a jolt of desire through me, rendering me an utter liar. My cock twitches, threatening to harden right here in the lobby of this luxury resort.

"I expected basic respect," she snaps. "I expected not to be treated like a disease you're afraid of catching."

I step closer to her, despite my better sense, closing the space between us. She stands her ground, chin raised defiantly, eyes blazing. The sight of her like this only makes things worse—she’s somehow even more fucking beautiful when she’s angry, her eyes flashing and cheeks flushed.

"Is that what you think?" I ask, my voice dropping. "That I'm afraid of you?"

"I think you're afraid of wanting me," she says, her voice softer but no less intense. There’s a clear challenge in her green eyes. "I think you arranged separate bedrooms because you don't trust yourself to be close to me without giving in to what's been building between us since the moment we met."

Her words hit too close to home, igniting a flash of anger. "You think very highly of yourself."

"I know desire when I see it, Konstantin." She sways closer, and I can feel the heat of her body, my senses swimming in her sugared-violet perfume. "I see it every time you look at me. I know you want me."

My heart hammers against my ribs, desire warring with my determination to keep my distance. She’s thrown down her gambit, and I refuse to pick it up. “This is inappropriate,” I growl, taking a step back. "This marriage is a business arrangement, nothing more. And the sooner you accept that, the easier this will be for both of us."

Something flickers in her eyes—hurt, perhaps, or disappointment. But it's quickly masked by anger. "Fine," she says coldly. "Enjoy jerking off alone in your honeymoon suite, Konstantin.”

“Keep your voice down,” I warn her sharply, turning back to the receptionist with a pleasant smile on my face. Elizabeth is wearing the neutral expression of a woman who’s seen more than one couple fight in her lobby, and has no intention of letting either of us know what she’s thinking. She hands over the keys to us, directing us to follow our personal concierge to the suites.

The suite is stunning. The room is huge, with gleaming wood floors and cream-colored furniture, a red and cream tufted rug stretched across the center of the main bedroom. A linen curtain is closed across an open-air exit to the large patio, and when the valet pulls it back, I see a plunge pool and furniture arranged next to it. The bed is bigger than the one in my penthouse at home, with soft cream-colored bedding and mosquito netting draped around it, and the suite is also furnished with a table, desk, and plush couches, as well as a large television.

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